Shannivar (14 page)

T
HE
place of gathering, the
khural-lak
, was one of the few fixed points in Azkhantia. At its heart lay an oasis that never ran dry, not even in years of drought. Here the ground was flat and easy, smoothed by generations of use. A rocky prominence rose above the fields, as if some giant beneath the earth had stretched up in greeting to the sky. A single narrow trail, a zigzag of switchbacks, led to the top of the prominence, where a ring of ancient stone structures formed a crown. The heights were sacred to the
enarees
, for here they met in their own private council and performed their secret rites.

Shannivar and her party arrived in late afternoon, before twilight muted the sky.
Jorts
and summer tents, many of them bright with clan emblems, dotted the central encampment. Here and there, a standard on a long pole towered above the tents. Reed screens had been erected to provide shelter from sun and wind while sipping tea and exchanging gossip. Horse pickets and groups of resting camels occupied the surrounding fields. Spaces had been cleared for dancing and contests of strength and skill, and a long flat field for races and mounted games.

Other septs of the Golden Eagle had already established their camps in the area traditionally reserved for their extended clan. Shannivar and her party set about doing the same, according to the routine they had used on the trail: the
enaree
in his own
jort
, Ythrae in Shannivar's, and separate trail tents for the men. As before, the two Isarrans kept to themselves, as did Danar and Zevaron.

One of the young men from a neighboring site strode into their camp just after the
jorts
were assembled. He was young and handsome, his hair oiled and tied back with thongs wrapped in colored wool, his boots and belt clearly new and of the finest leather. Shannivar did not know him, but she recognized the stylized ptarmigan on his jacket.

Shannivar set down the armload of blankets she had just unloaded from the camel and went to greet him, although it was rude for him to present himself before the new arrivals had sufficient time to settle in. Shannivar hoped he did not expect the customary hospitality, since the means of preparing tea had not been made ready. Senuthenkh, who had taken this responsibility for their party, was still unloading and sorting the chests containing the necessary supplies.

“May your day be lucky.” The visitor greeted Shannivar politely, tapping one fist over his heart, yet without staring directly at her. “I am Kharemikhar son of Pazarekh of the Ptarmigan Clan. Where is Alsanobal son of Esdarash? I desire to speak with him.”

“May your arrows fly true, Kharemikhar son of Pazarekh. Bitterness sits upon my tongue,” Shannivar replied formally, “for my cousin Alsanobal was wounded in battle with the Gelon as we traveled here. I am Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, leader-by-acclaim of this party.”

Kharemikhar blinked, quickly masking his surprise, though whether at news of the battle or at her leadership, she could not tell.

“Sorrow enters my ears to hear of it. Yet this is lessened by the greater sorrow of the women of Gelon, whose husbands will never return to them.” He glanced at the horse lines Rhuzenjin had set up.

“If you are looking for that crazy red horse of his,” Shannivar continued, dropping the ritual phrases for everyday speech, “save your sight for better things. He grazes now in the Pastures of the Sky, and there may he serve his master better than he did my cousin.”

Seeing Kharemikhar's reaction, she smiled, although it was not respectful. “I hope he had not challenged you to a horse race?”

The Ptarmigan youth nodded. “I was looking forward to besting him in the Long Ride this year.” He preened a little. “Now there is no one left to match me.”

“No one? Surely you and my cousin were not the only contestants?”

“Alsanobal was my only serious rival. I shall win without him, but the victory will not be as sweet.”

“If you hope to win the Long Ride, you must first beat
me
,” she answered with a touch of heat.

A flicker of disdain crossed Kharemikhar's handsome features. Shannivar thought that it would make her own victory all the more glorious to see his face when she took the prize. At that moment, however, Danar and Zevaron came into view, their arms laden with rolled carpets for Bennorakh's
jort
. As they had on the trail, they worked together, doing their share. They had earned a measure of respect for their willingness to do even the most arduous and menial tasks without complaint.

Kharemikhar had been about to reply to Shannivar when he saw the two outlanders. “Who is that? A Gelon?” He glared at Shannivar. “What is he doing here? We do not take prisoners, as even the smallest child among us knows.”

“He is not a prisoner.”

Kharemikhar grasped the hilt of the short, curved sword at his belt. “No enemy may set foot in the
khural-lak
! It is the law. If that man is a Gelon, then his life is forfeit.”

“And what of the law of hospitality? Would you shed the blood of a guest?” Shannivar moved quickly to block his path. “The Gelon and his comrade are under my protection.”

“Your—?” By his expression, Kharemikhar clearly thought she had gone mad. “For what purpose would you bring such men among us?”

Trying to sound reasonable, Shannivar replied, “They have business before the chiefs.”

“What business?”

Now it was Shannivar's turn to get angry. “It is no concern of yours. I have judged it important enough to bring them here, and that should be enough. If I am in error, the Council will tell me so. Either way, you have no cause to concern yourself.”

With a dip of his head, Kharemikhar refrained from challenging her outright, but his gaze flickered again to the two strangers. “I leave them to the wisdom of the chieftains, then. For the time being. But if these outlanders should break even the smallest custom of the gathering, that mistake will be their last.”

Shannivar watched him stride away. This, at least, was one husband she would not be seeking.

Having deposited his burden beside the threshold of the
enaree
's
jort
, Zevaron came to stand beside her. His expression was intent and vigilant, his eyes steady on Kharemikhar's retreating back. “That man searches for trouble.”

“What has he to do with you, or you with him?” Shannivar replied, still angry. “Your business is with the Council.”

“I've seen his like before,” Zevaron said evenly. “He's out for blood. Neutrality is all very well, but some matters must be settled before half the young hotheads in the camp join in.”

Danar, who had followed a pace behind, said, “Zev, don't do anything stupid. Promise me.”

“I gave your father my word I would protect you.” Heat edged Zevaron's words. “That doesn't include taking your orders against my better judgment.”

“But it includes taking
mine
,” Shannivar interrupted. “If either of you draws blade or bow against any man or woman here—including that ptarmigan-brained hothead—I will withdraw my protection and have you thrown out of the
khural
.”

Zevaron struggled visibly to refrain from answering her. Danar, his expression earnest, stepped between the two.

“I know our position here is difficult,” Danar said to her, “and I am grateful for all you have done on our behalf.”

Zevaron was right, however. The
khural
encampment was full of young warriors who would like nothing better than to kill another Gelon, and in a manner devised to attract the greatest public attention. Zevaron, as Danar's protector, would suffice in his stead, for one stone-dweller was very much like another. Kharemikhar would carry word to his friends, and together they would find some excuse to instigate a fight.

Shannivar could see only one way to resolve the problem, and that was to get the business of the Isarrans and of Zevaron and Danar finished as soon as possible. According to gathering custom, the chieftains heard cases from dawn until dusk. There was still time to get the business settled on this very day.

“I will go now to the Council,” Shannivar said to Danar and Zevaron, “and ask them to hear your case without delay. Until I return, you must remain here. Even better, keep within your own tent.”

“Out of sight and out of trouble?” Zevaron shook his head, clearly skeptical that would stop someone like Kharemikhar.

“The Isarran mission, at least, could be settled,” Danar said thoughtfully. “They would soon be on their way, eliminating one source of trouble.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “Even if our own petition is delayed, the simple fact that we
intend
to present one grants legitimacy to our presence. Besides, curiosity is a powerful motivation. We pose no present threat, but we do present a tantalizing mystery. Who would kill us before learning what brought us here?”

“You mean,” Zevaron replied dryly, “they'll wait to kill us
afterward
?”

“They'll wait to see how good a story we tell,” Danar replied, unperturbed.

Shannivar nodded, impressed by the young Gelon's acumen. He refused to be irritated by his friend, which showed he had good self-control. She agreed with his reasoning. More likely than not, once word spread through the
khural
that these outlanders had traveled through many dangers in order to address the chieftains, their status would be secure. At least, it would be until they had laid their case before the Council. She wondered if Rhuzenjin might agree to compose a song about them to enhance the mystery of their mission. After the dark looks Rhuzenjin had given Zevaron, however, she did not think asking him would be a good idea.

She found Phannus standing guard outside the trail tent with such an expression of protective vigilance that she thought he would challenge anyone who even suggested that his master break his rest. She inquired politely and waited while the Isarran demurred. Hearing her voice, Leanthos emerged, moving as if his knees pained him from so many hours in the saddle. He had been resting, perhaps asleep, and looked disheveled. The journey had been hard on him. He had aged visibly on the trail.

“So soon?” Leanthos sputtered, when Shannivar told him to prepare himself in case the Council would hear his case today.

“Why wait any longer? Are you not anxious for your words to be heard?” Shannivar demanded. “For your case to be settled?”

“I beg your indulgence, Lady Shannivar. I expected my reception to be a bit more . . . formal. Such is my error. But if it is your command and the way of your people that we proceed at once,” Leanthos visibly braced himself, “then I am grateful for even a little time in which to prepare.”

“Make yourself ready, then. If they agree, I will send for you.”

With a repeated admonition to Zevaron, Shannivar prepared to present herself to the Council. She paused only long enough to gather up the small portion of loot from the Gelonian fort: a wooden box of salt, a dagger of Denariyan steel in an ornate sheath, and a jar of oil.

She had not gone far when she was greeted by a handful of younger people. They had noticed her arrival and waited for an appropriate moment to approach her, as full of gossip as of curiosity. She recognized two or three of them from previous gatherings—Antelope, Falcon, Black Marmot, even one older woman of the Skylark clan.

“Heyo, Golden Eagle daughter! Your cousins have been waiting for you.”

“You're here at last!”

“We thought you might not come. Took your time, did you?”

“Heyo! It's good to see you, too,” Shannivar replied with a grin. “May your tongues be nimble and your horses fleet.”

Laughter answered her, along with more questions.

“Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, is it? Who could forget the black horse with the dancing feet?”

“Are you racing this year?”

“Where is Esdarash son of Akhisarak? Does he not sit on the Council this year?”

“Yes, I'm Shannivar, and Esdarash was brother to my father, and yes, the Long Ride. As to why we are late, it's a long story.”

“Stories we have time for, with plenty of
k'th
.”

“And dancing!”

Shannivar sobered. “The greater part of my clan, including my uncle, could not leave the
dharlak
so soon after the death of my grandmother—that is, Jannover daughter of Koranit.”

“Jannover daughter of Koranit!” Awed whispers echoed through the others.

“I didn't know she was still alive.”

“She must have been as old as winter itself!”

“Ai, sorrow sits upon my heart! Her death marks the passing of an age,” the Skylark woman lamented. “We shall not see another like her, not in all our years.”

“Do we see outlanders among you? Who are they? Why have they come?”

“What's the news here?” Shannivar asked, to divert attention. “Why so many empty spaces?”

“Snow Bear has not yet arrived, nor Raven. No one's heard from them all year.”

“Yes, but they may still come, Snow Bear that is. It's a far journey from the north.”

“Is Mirrimal daughter of Sayyiqan here? Last gathering, she said she would come again.”

Shannivar forced words through a throat suddenly tight. “Bitterness sits upon my tongue this day. Mirrimal daughter of Sayyiqan now dwells in the Sky Kingdom, along with her brother, Tamoferath son of Taraghay. They perished in battle against the Gelon.”

“Ai, sorrow! Jannover daughter of Koranit, and now Mirrimal! So many brave women lost to us! How did this come to pass?”

“There will be time enough for the tale,” Shannivar promised, unexpectedly moved by the expressions of sympathy. “You will hear the whole story at the proper time. Rhuzenjin son of Semador has composed a song-poem about the battle.”